Climbing Mount Fuji

It’s been said, “He who climbs Mount Fuji once is a wise man; he who climbs it twice is a fool.”

I am a wise man — who longs to be a fool.

As I recall, on a clear day you could see Fuji-san from my barracks. Among my many regrets as a member of VQ-1 was that in my self-involved, nose-in-a-book, face-in-a-scotch-glass worldview, I focused on molehills rather than mountains.

My friends, thankfully, saw the world differently.

I don’t remember how they conned me into the climb, or even how we got there. But I still carry a few clear, colorful moments of that day.

The Walking Stick

It had flat, smooth-cornered sides that were ideal for branding. At key points along the climb a caretaker would remove a glowing iron from hand-stoked flames and sear a crude, but crisp Japanese symbol into the stick’s surface. With faint smoke and searing heat, the ritual was repeated along the journey, gradually transforming the walking stick into a poor man’s obelisk, memorializing the day.

The Show-Off

At the time I was overweight, didn’t exercise, and smoked two or three packs a day of non-filtered Pall Malls (a pack of cigarettes was only 15 cents in Da Nang, a little more in Japan). And yet, there I was, climbing Mount Fuji. Out of breath, panting, struggling with each step. “This is hard,” I thought. “This is work.”

Then I caught a glimpse of a smallish woman. She was old, at least to my 23-year-old eyes. Thin. Wiry. Wearing a traditional, print-laden kimono and a big backpack, marching mechanically past me. Step-step. Chop-chop. Determined. Swish whish then gone. I was on a day-trip. She was on a mission. From that day to this, I can see her colorful ghost chastising me up the hill, toward the top of Fujiyama.

She embodied all that I came to respect and admire about the Japanese: A fine, honorable people with a good work ethic. Determined. I remember, at Atsugi, watching a Japanese repair crew move intensely about and around an airplane, like ants on honey, and then watching an American crew work on an identical airplane . . . in slow motion, between coffee and smoke breaks. I wondered to myself, “How did we win the war?”

Walking on The Crown

Sometimes you get what you want and ask, “Is that all there is?” The fever breaks and equilibrium returns, followed by emptiness. Not so with Fuji-san. The climb was memorable, but experiencing the top was the stuff that dreams are made of. The crisp, mean air did not let you forget for a moment where you were – and that you were alive. I can’t recall the view, but I can close my eyes, open my mind and re-live the being-ness of being there. The icy, lung-needling deep breaths. Eyes darting about, exhilarated, exhausted. There are much bigger mountains that I will never climb. But I have walked on Fuji’s crown.

Joy Run

Getting me to the top of Mount Fuji took a small army of sailors, but getting to the bottom just took gravity. We cascaded down the volcanic slopes, jump-running, big- stepping, hop-scotching, each giddy bounce moving us forward and out. All the while knowing that one slip could send any one of us face-first into rock and ash. But none of us fell. Instead we laughed and screamed, creating a fool’s symphony that only a mesmerizing mix of danger and delight can orchestrate. Then, suddenly, it was over.

* * *

It’s been well over 40 years since I climbed Mount Fuji. Someday I want to go back and re-capture that fragile, sweet memory. I have neither notes nor photos from that first climb. Not even my branded walking stick remains. Nowadays, I find myself too often describing life rather than living it. That day in Japan, on that beautiful sky-kissed mountain, I lived — a full measure, “pressed down, shaken together and running over.”

Excerpted from my book "Orange Socks," available on Amazon at:

https://www.amazon.com/Orange-Socks-other-Colorful-Tales-ebook/dp/B00VH6XR38